


Just look at me

by mothjons



Series: TMA hurt/comfort week 2020 [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ficlet, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, discussion of past injuries, non-graphic, treating of injuries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26101066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mothjons/pseuds/mothjons
Summary: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week, day 2Jon treats Martin's injuries, and the two talk about Jon's own
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA hurt/comfort week 2020 [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1896007
Comments: 24
Kudos: 170





	Just look at me

**Author's Note:**

> I've never done a writing prompt week ... thing before??? So this is very exciting :D Honestly don't think I would've if I wasn't on a discord server with so many amazing writers, and getting to see all their stuff for day one was very inspiring!! Anyway, hope you enjoy!!

“Just look at me, okay?”

Martin just nodded; his brows knotted in effort as he met Jon’s eyes. He tried not to squeeze them shut as he felt Jon’s hands turn over his own.

“You’re alright,” murmured Jon, his voice almost too soft to hear. His eyes fell away from Martin’s momentarily, and Martin felt his hand being tilted side to side, as Jon inspected the burn.

“They just freak me out!” blurted Martin, fixing his stare on some nondescript corner of the cottage. “I just – I don’t like them, they’re all – ” He used his good hand to wave about, loosely drawing shapes to convey his disgust. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I’m being a baby.”

Jon laughed quietly, and out of the corner of Martin’s eyes he could see him shaking his head, loose curls swaying in tandem with the motion. “You’re not being a baby, Martin.”

“I am a bit,” said Martin.

“A bit.”

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” smiled Jon. There was the sound of clips being undone, and then the rustling of plastic as Jon fished around in the battered first aid kit that Daisy had left in the cottage. It was a curious thing to have been left behind, as, and neither would say it, the cottage didn’t seem like the sort of place Daisy went to _treat_ injuries – more the opposite.

“It’s not that bad – honestly,” said Jon.

“It feels bad,” muttered Martin, then sighed. “Sorry – baby.”

Jon just hummed, a small smile on his lips. Martin let his gaze fall back onto the furrowed brow of Jon, as he methodically laid out the contents of the kit, inspecting each package as he did so.

“Hey, Jon,” said Martin, his tone cautious. Jon looked up at him, a soft look of curiosity in his eyes – there usually was, when it came to Jon; but it tended to fall on the harsher, hungrier side of curiosity. This, however, was a look of gentle, human curiosity, that made Martin’s heart thud a little faster in his chest.

“Yes?”

Martin paused for a moment, considering his words carefully. “You – your hand,” he started, his eyes on Jon, searching for any sign of discomfort – any sign to step back from the subject. Jon’s expression never wavered, and he blinked in the silence. “What – what was that like?”

Jon’s lips curled upwards into a bemused smirk, and he raised an eyebrow. “It hurt.”

Martin rolled his eyes. “Of course it hurt, Jon. I scalded myself with a kettle, and I’m on the verge of tears.”

“No you’re not.”

“I’m on the verge of a verge,” said Martin, waving his hand to wash away the point. Jon’s smile turned into amusement, and a small breath of a laugh escaped. Martin felt his own expression mirror Jon’s. It was hard not to – he’d spend the better part of four years attempting to draw that expression out, and now, in the walls of the cottage, he was being gifted it freely. A beat passed, and then Jon went back to sorting through the first aid kit.

“You never went to A&E, did you?” asked Martin, though he knew the answer. He found that Jon never much liked to state things outright, needing a fair amount of coaxing to express the words.

A small inhale of breath, then a pause. “No.”

“Why?”

“I – I don’t know,” said Jon. “It just – I just didn’t feel it was necessary.”

“Jon.”

“I know, I know,” said Jon. He held up the scarred hand. “Believe me, I know.”

“Do you know or Know?” teased Martin.

That earned another laugh. “Oh, that’s just plain common sense.”

“That – ”

“That I lack,” finished Jon, giving Martin a pointed, but playful look. “The Beholding can tell me many things, though none of them are conducive for day-to-day life.”

“Certainly helped you win trivial pursuit last night,” said Martin under his breath.

“Technically not cheating,” stated Jon.

“How is that not cheating?”

Jon just smirked, earning another eyeroll from Martin. A beat, and then, “Let me know if this stings.”

“Huh – ow!” Martin didn’t have time to react before Jon had decanted half a bottle of burn salve onto his hand. The viscous liquid pooled in the palm of his hand, and Jon, gingerly, began to massage it across his fingers. Slowly, the sharp pain melted into calm; as the ointment began to sooth his red, and raw hand.

Jon’s fingers, narrow and nimble, made quick work of coating Martin’s hand; yet he stayed, slowly drawing patterns onto his palms with whisper like precision. It felt so gentle, that Martin almost didn’t want to speak for fear of breaking it.

“That, uh – that feels nice,” said Martin. “Thank you, Jon.”

“Of course, Martin,” said Jon, in a tone not to dissimilar to how he would thank Martin for handing in his research, or for a cup of tea – simple, succinct, and clear. The only evidence for anything having changed was the look on his face; that look of complete adoration that still left Martin feeling winded, and having to pinch himself, because _‘That’s Jon looking at me like that’_.

“Thank you,” said Jon suddenly, his voice feeling too loud for the silence that had grown.

“Oh?” sounded Martin. “What for?”

Jon swallowed, his eyes on Martin’s hands. “For – for letting me look after you. It’s – I – you’ve always looked after me, it’s, uh – it’s nice. To – To repay that.”

“It’s not transactional, Jon,” said Martin softly. “But – but you’re welcome, I suppose. And thank you, for looking after me, too.”

“Of course,” he said again. He pulled a packet of white gauze out, and tore open the seal. With a precision that only came from his history as a perfectionist, Jon began to bandage Martin’s hand. He didn’t speak as he did it, just the slow, shallow breaths, as the bundle in his hands got smaller, as the bundle on Martin’s grew. He cut the gauze short, tucking the loose strand in amongst the folds. He didn’t look up at Martin, though; his eyes fastened on Martin’s hand, his fingers still gently cupping it.

“Martin, I did know.”

“I assumed you knew most things,” laughed Martin, and then, when seeing that Jon’s expression wasn’t wavering into amusement, stopped. “What - what did you know?”

“Why I didn’t go to A&E,” he said. Martin didn’t speak, opting instead to take Jon’s scarred hand in his uninjured one. He squeezed. “I – I sort of felt like it was penance.”

“Jon,” breathed Martin, hoping his name alone carried all his arguments against that sentiment.

“I thought if I went to A&E, if I – if I treated it, then – then it was me running from what I – ” He cut himself off with a sigh, and Martin could see his thought scrambling together to pick his next words. “It felt like running from what I deserved.”

“Jon, you didn’t deserve that,” said Martin, with a raw force in his throat. His free hand came up to cup Jon’s face, and he tilted into it. “Nobody deserved that.”

Martin could see it in Jon’s eyes, could almost see the words bubbling up Jon’s throat – could hear it too, hear his faint ‘ _I do’_ that he knows Jon doesn’t dare vocalise out loud.

“Jon.” Martin hopes that Jon knows what he’s trying to say, or Know – but he wants it to be the former; he wants Jon to just know that Martin loves him, and wants to keep him safe, and happy, and warm – and away from all those things that tried to hurt him – that did hurt him.

And then Jon smiled, his hand coming up to meet Martin’s. “I know,” he said. “Lowercase know.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are the bread and butter of my existence, and if you want to chat - I'm @buccata on tumblr


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